


honeysuckle

by sakura_aesthetic (orphan_account)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Florist AU, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 00:38:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13178640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sakura_aesthetic
Summary: For Suga, floristry is an art, and like his mother before him, he is determined to take care of the family business. Only, by being built on the foundation of his mother's legacy as an amazing florist, Suga doubts his skills. That is until Daichi: a man who purchases red roses every week for his adoring girlfriend; yet, spares a hefty tip for the florist with a smile.





	honeysuckle

 

On the corner of Cypress Street and Londgren Boulevard in downtown Rhinebeck, protruding from both a bistro, and a hole-in-the-wall bookshop, resided a quaint flower shop. First built in the early nineteen-fifties,  _ Sugawara Floristry _ had been constructed for the sole purpose of bringing people together after the war, for loved ones to be reunited, for families to pay their respects to those that died (and those that survived). It was a household name, and just last year, the store was bequeathed to Sugawara Kōshi, shortly after his beloved mother passed away.

She’d died on a Wednesday. Suga had enclosed a bouquet of white lilies in her gentle hands before she was laid to rest.

Naturally, after her departure, Suga was determined to maintain the shop. And as a result, sharpened his skills, honed in his keen sense of design, and learned to make the most elegant, most beautiful bouquets. For floristry in Suga’s eyes—similar to his mother before him—was an art. 

 

—

 

On a Monday afternoon in the middle of April, a shipment of new flowers is delivered to  _ Sugawara Floristry _ . With the store as quiet as ever, Suga spends the next three hours clipping, trimming, and arranging the bouquets. The vibrant blues, passionate reds, and technicolor greens really bring the store to life, attracting every single passerby to the bay window in front of the shop. He waves at them, a friendly smile gracing his lips, then turns his attention back to the bouquet at hand.

Around three o’clock, the doorbell signals the presence of a young woman; she orders a large arrangement of sunflowers for her visiting mother-in-law. Around four o’clock, a businessman wanders inside, asking for assistance in making a suitable bouquet for his blushing bride—he leaves with an armful of roses. Around five o’clock, an older woman saunters inside, pays for a single lilac, then offers it to a man (assumedly her husband) sitting on a nearby bench, the couple embracing whilst people watching. Suga watches the whole affair from the window, enamored by her simple but affectionate gesture. In the back of his mind, he wonders if someday he’ll ever love someone that much. 

After the “rush hour” swiftly comes to a close, Suga busies himself by pruning the last bush of honeysuckle in the back room. It has, and will always remain to be, his favorite flower. They had been his mother’s favorite too.

The doorbell rings. Wiping the pollen on his apron, the florist leaves the annexed room, entering the main space, and comes face to face with a man—a man with mocha-colored eyes, short-cropped hair, and a smile that (surprisingly) leaves Suga breathless.

“Hello, how can I help you?” Suga quickly says, his customer-friendly smile reappearing.

“Good evening,” the man replies, his voice deep but soothing, “just here to pick up some flowers.”

Suga nods and makes his way over to the cashier, flipping through the list of recent requests.

“Name?”

“Sawamura Daichi… there should be an order for a bouquet of red roses. I just called yesterday to place an order.”

Suga sifts through the orders, his finger eventually landing on Daichi’s name. “Ah, here it is. A bouquet of red roses. I assume these are for the girlfriend.”

“Yes, she loves them.”

Suga chuckles.  _ Red roses—how typical _ . 

“Alright, I’ll go get them for you.”

“Thanks.”

Minutes later, Suga returns with the roses. He can’t help but smile as he watches Daichi’s face light up, similar to a little boy opening his first gift on Christmas. It’s positively moving and captivating to see, Suga’s heart tightening in the slightest at Daichi’s apparent satisfaction.

“Wow… I didn’t think they’d look so… pretty,” Daichi stammers, then collects himself, “she’s going to love them.”

“I only pick the best flowers for my customers,” Suga beams, happy with his craftsmanship, happy that he gets to bear witness to Daichi’s breathtaking smile once more.

“Well, if your other bouquets look anything like this, then I can definitely believe it.”

Suga is taken aback by the sudden urge to cry, to hug this stranger.

“Thank you, it means a lot to me. This shop used to be my mother’s before she passed away—”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Suga reassures Daichi, then continues, “I’d like to think that I’m taking care of the business, but sometimes, I just don’t know if it’s what my mother really wanted.”

The smile leaves Suga’s lips for a split second, his eyebrows crinkling in longing—sometimes he forgets how much he truly misses her. He misses the early mornings spent tending to their homemade garden. He misses the buttermilk pancakes drizzled in golden syrup before school. He misses the warm embrace of her arms, the way she kissed his head whilst tucking him into bed. He misses her and everything about her.

“Are you happy?”

Daichi’s voice abruptly intrudes upon Suga’s thoughts, bringing him back to the store, the cashier, the bouquet of roses held in his arms.

“Pardon?”

“Do you feel happy?” Daichi repeats, his brown eyes focused entirely on Suga.

Suga isn’t prepared for this conversation, let alone this verbal exchange with a man he hardly knows. At this point in time, all he knows about Daichi is that he has a girlfriend who loves roses, and a smile so bright it can light up an entire city.

_ What are you thinking? Pull yourself together and answer his question. _

“Um, sure. Yeah, I’m happy,” Suga murmurs then offers the roses to Daichi with open arms. “Your total is seventy-five dollars.”

Daichi’s smile doesn’t waver; he doesn’t accept the roses.

“Do you enjoy what you do?”

Suga blinks twice before answering.

“Of course, I love working here.”

“And do you wake up every morning, looking forward to spending your day here?”

Suga doesn’t hesitate this time.

“Without a doubt.”

If at all possible, Daichi’s smile only grows.

“Then I know one thing for sure… your mother is proud of you, and couldn’t ask for anything more of you.”

Suga stands there speechless, gawking at Daichi. His heart swells at Daichi’s words of confidence, how he had said them without a blip of hesitation, how he had said them with so much certainty.

Suga, however, is knocked from his trance as he feels Daichi’s hands against his, hoisting the heavy bouquet out of his arms. Digging into the back pocket of his jeans, Daichi pulls out a thick wad of cash, places it on the counter, and struts for the door.

“Have a good night!”

The silver-haired man quickly nabs the cash, realizes there’s extra five dollars and calls out for Daichi, yelling that he’s forgotten to collect his spare change. Only, the door closes with a thud and Daichi is gone.

 

—

 

The following Monday, the weather forecast predicts a bout of thunderstorms in the afternoon. Off by a margin, an ominous cloud throttles the small town around six o’clock in the evening, heavy rain flooding the cobblestone streets, soaking the few unfortunate people caught in the flurry of showers. 

Suga, of course, hurries down from his loft and offers shelter to those in passing, opening the shop’s doors to the drenched stragglers. On days like this, Suga cranks the heat, providing mugs of piping hot tea to the shivering hands of his neighbors. They accept the kind gesture with a laugh, a smile that warms Suga’s heart. And his kindness, though small in stature, ripples through the crowd. Friends who haven’t spoken in years shake hands and joke about the good old days. Parents embrace their children, holding them close, kissing their foreheads. Rivals decide to settle the score with a game of cards. As the young florist glances around the tiny, cramped space, his heart bursts with joy.  _ This _ is why he loves being a florist—bringing people together, everyone stopping to smell the roses. 

As a crack of lightning strikes the earth, incessant thunder rumbling in the distance, the doorbell jingles. Nobody but Suga turns to greet the newcomer, chestnut eyes meeting mocha. With their silent exchange, a wide smile breaks across Sawamura Daichi’s face. 

“Yo,” Daichi calls out, stumbling through the lively crowd toward the silver-haired man.

“Hello,” Suga replies, eyeing the clothes soaked with rain, drops of water surely leaving a puddle around Daichi’s feet.

Daichi notices and curses, shrugging off the saturated coat and hangs it on the coat rack nearby. “Sorry, my bad.”

“Don’t worry about it. This shop can survive a little water.”

Daichi chuckles at this, mocha eyes crinkling at the corners. Suga can’t help the blush that spreads to his cheeks, oddly flustered by Daichi’s cheerful laugh. Fighting the urge to hide his face, Suga attempts to regain his cool composure, sliding a steaming cup of tea across the cashier counter.

“Tea?”

“Please.”

Daichi cradles the mug in his hands, the herbal aroma wafting into the air between them. It smells  _ heavenly _ . Taking a tentative sip, Suga watches Daichi’s eyes grow wide, his throat humming with pleasure.

“This is  _ so _ good,” the mocha-eyed man exclaims, his eyes bright. “What did you put in this, uh—”

“What?” Suga asks incredulously, concern ebbing his voice.

_ Is something wrong with him? With the tea? _

“You know, it just occurred to me… you haven’t told me your name,” Daichi mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Oh.” Suga sighs in disappointment; the shop is named  _ after _ him, after his mother. He knows he shouldn’t be bothered by this. After all, Suga can hardly remember what he’s eaten for breakfast. Except for the few, occasional mornings wherein he fixes traditional miso soup and broiled salmon—he never forgets those. Regardless, he musters a smile for Daichi and pretends to brush it off as nothing.

“My name is Sugawara—the shop shares my name.”

Expecting to shake hands, Suga extends his arm to properly introduce himself, only to find Daichi slapping him on the back, a vivacious laugh erupting from his mouth.

“Well  _ obviously _ ,” Daichi rolls his eyes, “I meant your first name.”

_ Didn’t think about that. _

“Oh right,” Suga stammers, then clears his throat, “Kōshi. Call me Kōshi.”

“Kōshi,” Daichi sighs, placing a finger to his lips as if to ponder, then nods, “it suits you.”

Suga can’t help but smile. His mother had chosen it. Apparently, before Suga was born, his grandmother had fallen ill. An abnormal cluster of cells had festered inside her lungs, rapidly grew in size, a tumor metastasizing and clawing towards her heart. The cancer had nearly taken her away, and with her final minutes spent coughing up thick, crimson blood, wrinkled hands grasping the bed for leverage, Suga’s grandmother placed a withered hand on his mother, touching the baby bump. Her wheezing breaths lessened, her heart relaxed, and for a moment, his grandmother had supposedly been calm, been herself. And with his steady kicking, Suga had lulled his grandmother to a peaceful death. Thus, with her passing, Suga’s mother simply clutched at her stomach and whispered his name: Kōshi, to support one's elders. 

Thinking of his mother, Suga briefly remembers his and Daichi’s conversation from last week Monday, his cheeks instantly warming once more.

“Daichi—is it okay if I call you by your first name?”

Daichi raises an eyebrow then cocks his head, grinning in earnest.

“Of course. So long as I can call you Kōshi.”

Suga nods, his head bobbing in agreement.

“Daichi, I wanted to thank you… for what you said last week. You know, about my mother,” Suga murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. He notices Daichi’s surprised expression and makes haste in diffusing the awkward atmosphere. “It’s just, she meant a lot to me. And… it isn’t every day that a total stranger says my mother would be proud of me. I don’t know, for some reason, it meant a lot coming from you.”

Mocha-brown eyes find chestnut; a solemn but appreciative gaze being held.

“You’re welcome.”

The shattering of a mug brings the two men back to the flower shop, back to the overcrowded room, back to the retreating storm now dissipating over the valley.

“I’ll get a broom,” Suga mutters, peeling away from Daichi and stumbles over to the mess.

“I’ll get a dust-pan,” Daichi follows close behind, helping to clear away the debris and broken shards of porcelain. 

Within an hour, once the sky is clear again, the rambunctious townspeople are antsy to head home for the day. Nonetheless, each and every one of them acknowledges Suga and his graciousness. At the door, they take Suga’s hands and thank him for his hospitality. One woman is desperate to pay for the broken mug and profusely apologizes for the accident she had caused (Suga refuses the money and sends her on her way). Some people decide to hang back and stroll through the flower shop, a few individuals purchasing a bouquet and leaving a (very) generous tip. A family even offers their humble abode to Suga, inviting him to dinner—an invitation Suga politely declines for he must tend to his shop and close down for the day. And of course, Daichi helps Suga tidy up the space, washing and drying dirtied mugs, rolling up and putting away open bags of coffee grounds, showing a few neighbors to the front door and wishing them a good evening. 

Once the store is clear—save for Daichi and the florist himself—Suga yawns, stretching his arms over his head.

“Long day?” Daichi snickers.

Suga smirks. “Oh, you have  _ no _ idea.”

“Do you have time for one more customer?”

At this, Suga’s smile falls.

“Was last week’s bouquet not satisfactory for your girlfriend?”

He can’t help the tremble of his lips. He can’t help feeling like he screwed up, like he did something wrong, like he betrayed Daichi. Suga mentally slaps himself upside the head (surely he hadn’t betrayed Daichi… they were just flowers); yet, he still feels the guilt rising like a tide, rushing over him. 

Daichi must have noticed, for he quickly reassures Suga with his signature smile.

“Oh, no, Kōshi, I didn’t mean it like  _ that _ .”

_ Thank goodness _ . Suga releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“I buy my girlfriend flowers every week.”

_ Every week _ .

“Why? They shouldn’t be dying so quickly,” Suga quickly mutters, stumbling over his words, rapid fire.

_ Maybe I didn’t give him a fresh bouquet? Maybe I didn’t cut them properly? Maybe I left them in the sunlight for too long? _

Daichi shakes his head. “Again, Kōshi, it isn’t your fault. The flowers last week were perfect, and still are.”

“Then why are you buying another bouquet?” Suga can’t help but ask, the question tumbling out of his mouth.

“Because,” Daichi whispers, his mocha-brown eyes softening, “I want her to always have something to remember me by when I’m at school, when I’m working, when I’m not with her. I want to always remain by her side, and by giving her new flowers every Monday, there is never the chance that they’ll die, that she’ll be without me.”

Suga’s heart stutters, his face flushing.

“You sound like a complete and utter romantic, Daichi.”

“And that I am.”

“What will it be then, for today?”

“Roses. Red roses.”

 

—

 

“You know, by now, I figured you’d know my order by heart.”

Suga stifles a laugh and continues to adjust the flowers in his hand.

It’s been almost two months since Daichi first started coming to  _ Sugawara Floristry _ . Apparently, his girlfriend had forced his hand, persuading him to leave the big city behind and move to the rural outskirts. Daichi admitted to Suga that he initially regretted the decision—he hasn’t and never will get used to the slang, the eerie quiet of the sleepy little town, the dire need to greet  _ everyone _ on the street by name—but after meeting Suga, it got easier. The notion that Suga helped Daichi feel more comfortable in Rhinebeck fills the florist with something close to pride—no,  _ happiness _ for some apparent reason. 

Despite the two month stretch of time since his arrival, Suga manages to treat Daichi as both a customer and a friend. For upon Daichi’s entrance into the shop, the florist still welcomes him with a signature grin and his routine:  _ Welcome, how can I help you? _ At first, it irked Daichi to no end but eventually, he let it go, after Suga explained it was his intention to uphold all formalities, just as his mother had before him. In Suga’s case, however, he can’t help the playful banter that eases into conversation, the harmless jokes that leave Daichi’s face beet-red, the gentle swat on the back, the rare and exceedingly genuine smile that sneaks across Suga’s face. But first and foremost, Daichi is Suga’s (most frequent) customer; he coincidentally also happens to become his best friend.

So,  _ of course _ , Suga remembers Daichi’s order (it isn’t that hard in the first place: one bouquet of red roses, pick-up every Monday). Not that he will ever admit  _ that _ to the man himself; it’s fun to tease Daichi to wit’s end.

“What’s so funny?” Daichi mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Nothing really,” Suga replies, wrapping tissue paper around the delicate arrangement, then ties a ribbon around the bouquet. The stems lay together nicely, evenly.  _ Snip snip _ . The florist cuts the ends perfectly with a pair of shears. 

“Tell me, Kōshi.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Suga shrugs, then presents the lush flowers to Daichi. “One bouquet of red roses.”

Daichi groans but snatches them from Suga’s hand, then places a few crumpled bills on the counter. Exact amount, no change.

“Just tell me,” the mocha-eyed man whines whilst tucking the flowers under his arm, “I promise I won’t be offended.”

At this, Suga steals a glance at Daichi; obviously, he’s annoyed, but also curious. From the slant in Daichi’s brow, the squint in his eyes, to the tilted position of his head.  _ He really wants to know _ . Any trace of benign mocking leaves Suga’s face.  _ Crap, I have to tell him _ .

“Promise me you won’t get mad.”

Daichi crosses his heart with his index finger, “I promise.”

“It’s just…”

Daichi immediately perks up, leaning forward.

“What?”

“It’s just, every time you come here, you buy red roses,” Suga stammers, twiddling his hands. He’s nervous now; it’s really none of his business, nor his place, to talk down at Daichi.

“Yeah, they’re my girlfriend’s favorite.”

Suga cringes; naturally, his girlfriend likes red roses. He’s known this since day one.

“But everyone likes red roses.  _ Everyone _ ,” Suga mutters.

“What’s wrong with red roses?” Daichi asks. It’s a sincere question.

“Well, not to sound condescending or anything, just… in my opinion, there are other flowers that are more meaningful.”

Suga finally exhales, getting out what needed to be spoken. He searches Daichi’s face for any hint of anger, irritation, or resentment but finds none. He only finds confusion, much to his surprise.

“Meaningful? What do you mean? They’re just flowers… they look pretty and smell nice.”

The florist sighs. If only Suga’s mother were still around to explain this; it had been her specialty in the art of arranging flowers.

“All flowers mean something,” Suga says, then points to Daichi’s bundle of roses whilst blushing, “for example, red roses are symbolic of  _ true love _ .”

Suga then rounds the counter and walks toward a bouquet of carnations. “White carnations represent  _ faithfulness _ and  _ pure love _ .”

Daichi relinquishes a faint  _ oh _ sound, Suga’s words appearing to settle with him. “That makes sense, I guess. What do these mean?”

Suga follows Daichi’s outstretched hand, fingers brushing over the petals of a gardenia.

“Ah, gardenias often mean  _ secret love _ but can sometimes be given as a token of  _ good luck _ .”

“And these?”

“Elderflower.  _ Compassion _ .”

“How about this one?”

“Cypress.  _ Mourning _ .”

“And this?”

“Bellflower.  _ Unwavering love _ .”

Daichi’s eyes are sparkling now, as if seeing the world for the first time. And for Suga, too, it’s as if the entire shop has burst with color, the flowers surrounding them germinating, growing, blooming. Birth. Life.  _ Live _ .

Mocha meets chestnut now, gaze unwavering.

“What’s your favorite flower, Kōshi?”

At this, Suga can’t help but smile.

“Let me show you.”

Grabbing Daichi’s wrist, he leads the way to the back room, the greenhouse just below the loft. Evening light pours in through the windows, dew clinging to the leaves of overgrown but flourishing plants, pollen dusting the Talavera tile.  _ So beautiful _ ; Daichi’s sharp intake of air at the sight leaves Suga’s heart pounding, face flushing.

They pause before a wild bush of honeysuckle, the flowers sprouting from random stems, pink, purple, and white petals long and parallel to one another, a sweet aroma filling the room.

“Honeysuckle,” Suga breathes, peeking at Daichi’s awestruck face, “ _ devoted affection _ .”

At his own words, Suga blushes and turns away.

Daichi exhales deeply, and then, “beautiful.”

Only, Daichi’s eyes are no longer captivated by the honeysuckle flowers, rather, by the man standing beside him.

 

—

 

It’s Sunday morning. The first crack of dawn borders the horizon, a gentle light illuminating the solid, stone faces lined across the field. An occasional flower is found perched against the headstones; Suga is content to see his handiwork, flowers he himself had cut and arranged serving as a gift to those who had passed on. 

He is grateful that they are remembered.

As he rounds a sakura tree, his steps slow until he stands in front of a small but significant bed of grass, the plot of land now sprouting wildflowers since his last visit. The breeze ripples through the lawn, loose petals taking flight and surpassing the smooth, polished, concrete slab. His eyes flick over the name:  _ Sugawara Hana _ . 

A woman who taught her son to arrange the most beautiful bouquets. A woman who walked him to school every morning, holding his hand as they crossed the street, kissing both of his cheeks before parting ways. A woman who read story after story by candlelight, carding her fingers through silver locks until her child’s eyelids fluttered closed. A woman who cradled him in her arms after he had fallen, a nasty gash splitting his shin. A woman who tutored him when his grades had slipped. A woman who cooked after nightfall, providing her child with food to comfort him during entrance exams. A woman who made bentos beyond compare, feeding muscles, feeding a boy who needed to grow. A woman who worked day in and day out, supporting her son. A woman who upon collapsing just after lunch, managed to smile and wipe her son’s face dry of tears, murmuring that she wasn’t in pain and that everything was going to be okay. A woman who withstood four surgeries, surviving every single one, and all the while, reassuring her child that soon she would make his favorite dish again. A woman who held his hand throughout the night, sparing her sleep to make sure the nightmares haunting him would shy away. A woman who became wrinkled and hollow and weak within a mere month, her body breaking apart, her son wondering how she could look so dead but still be alive; to think she once carried him inside of her seemed unimaginable now. A woman who’s strong grasp suddenly became limp, her skin gone cold, her eyes dim, her mouth half-open, half-closed, gaping like a fish, as a final breath leaves her. A woman he had loved, had died. A woman he needed but no longer had. A woman who was Suga’s mother, her body now buried six feet under.

Sugawara Kōshi grits his teeth, clenching a fist around the flowers. Upon hearing an audible  _ crunch _ of petals and leaves, he lessens his grip and kneels, bowing to the ground. The morning dew soaks through his pants but he doesn’t care; if anything, he bows even lower, his head resting against the soil.

“Happy Mother’s Day, はは*.”

He places the honeysuckle by the stone, stroking the concrete as if it were her silver-grey hair. He misses the silky strands, fingers eventually unable to clutch or tug the locks as she lost handfuls of hair at a time. He misses her skin and how she always smelt of herbal tea, the sterile scent of needles and medicine and sickness quickly consuming her. He misses her firm but gentle hands and how they’d arrange flowers every day; they became too shaky, too unpredictable after the first wave of illness. He misses her adoring eyes, how they were once hazelnut but became milky white and foggy with the cancer.

She had melanoma, you see, and after a few weeks, the tumor became aggressive and nabbed her ability to see. The day she could no longer see her son, had been the first of many bad days, a spell of hopelessness quickly following and sapping her will to fight. It didn’t take long for the cancer to spread, growing like vines toward her brain, squeezing it, quenching it of air, suffocating her. Suga had witnessed it all: her struggle, her life fading away, her last, dying breath. He had been there to hold her hand, to tell her to fight, but it was impossible, in vain—she couldn’t hear him anymore. The doctors explained that the cancer had stripped away her senses, all five of them. But somehow, even at the end, she had clutched Suga’s hand with hers, fingers thumbing over his knuckles, the way she used to check flower petals for wilted spots. Not that it mattered; she died later that night, her fingers crooked and oddly bent at the joints, her body shriveling in Suga’s careful, capable arms.

It had been surreal, and for Suga, it still is. His mother is gone and only when he visits her like this, on the few odd days out of the year, is he reminded of her absence; the fact that she no longer spruces up the flower shop every morning; that she no longer tends to the greenhouse; that she no longer stops by the bakery, picking up pastries for dessert at night; that she no longer tucks him into bed; that she no longer trims and waters and arranges flowers— 

—it hurts. It’s too painful to bear and Suga breaks down at her side, gripping the grass in his hands, yanking on the roots, tears staining her bedsheets. He is back at the hospital, back in her room, back in her embrace, hearing her panicked voice when the darkness overcame her and took away her son. 

“Kōshi! Kōshi! I can’t see you! Where are you? Kōshi!”

The doctors had given her a sedative, pinned her down, and all the while, Suga could feel his world shift, the weight of the situation crashing down. First, his grandmother. The next, the woman who raised him. That weight hasn’t lifted, not now, not after a year. 

It’s been so long since she died. But hell, Suga feels like he lost her only yesterday. 

 

—

 

Carrying on with tradition, Daichi leaves school at approximately five o’clock in the evening, managing to disentangle himself from a particularly, strenuous volleyball practice (college sports are no joke, after all), and jogs to the flower shop. It has become a habit to take a right turn as opposed to a left at the fork in the road, the athlete adamant to always see the happy, go-lucky florist.

Only today, something is off about  _ Sugawara Floristry _ and Daichi, to no avail, can’t discern why. As he runs along the sidewalk parallel to the shop, he eyes it up and down.

Perhaps it’s the navy, blue shutters, how they stand out against the withered panels of the building. Suga did mention just a few weeks ago that he’d be repainting them soon. They do look a bit out of place. Daichi shakes his head, then steals a peek through the large bay window.

Mocha eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. For just beyond the thin partition, the interior of the shop lies in ruin. The astonishing bouquets of flowers once lining the wall are in disarray, widespread and trampled across the hardwood; loose ribbons are unveiled, strewn randomly all over the shop; a distant sound of a ceramic mug echoes from within; and in the middle of it all, Sugawara Kōshi is screaming, hands scrambling to gather something to hold, to clench, to throw, to break. He collapses against an aisle, chest heaving, arms violently shaking; Daichi gawks at the scene, unable to believe what he has witnessed.

Suga’s stillness does not last long. After a few seconds, he starts crying, then kneels over and swats at everything within arm’s reach, shoving things away, yanking them closer, pushing them beneath shelves, then slamming them down on the unforgiving floor. Even though a wall, a  _ CLOSED  _ sign, the dim lights, the half-drawn nature of the blinds urge to keep customers away, Daichi can’t stop himself before he rams through the front door, quick to grab the vase from Suga’s trembling hands. 

“No!” Suga is putting up a fight, struggling against Daichi to grab it back.

“Kōshi, stop! You have to stop!”

The florist’s swollen, red eyes are blazing with anger, wet with smothered tears. “Give it back to me!”

“I can’t do that,” Daichi breathes, attempting to rid his voice of rising anxiety; it will only make Suga more agitated. If anything, he has to calm down.

“It was my mother’s, give it back!”

Suga lunges for the glass decoration, the vase nearly slipping out of Daichi’s careful fingers. He remains steady, however, and grips Suga’s shoulders. He makes sure to keep his hands firm but gentle, authoritative but soothing, collected but comforting. And in his grasp, he feels the rapid pulse of Sugawara Kōshi, his heart beating erratically, out-of-control,  _ too fast _ . 

“Kōshi, I need you to calm down.”

“Give it—”

“Kōshi, I’m here,” Daichi murmurs, squeezing him, holding him.

Every second that follows ticks by agonizingly slow, Suga’s uneven pants taking up what little oxygen remains inside the shop. Unlike the previous visits, Daichi feels cramped, claustrophobic; everything feels too entirely small and he can’t breathe.  _ Suga must be suffocating _ ; the atmosphere of the room is tense, constricted, and unsettling. 

Eventually, Suga stops thrashing against Daichi’s strong body, collapsing into his arms and sighing. His body is limp, tired, heavy, and he leans entirely against the volleyballer but Daichi doesn’t mind. Not in the slightest.

More time passes by, the sky going dark, night blanketing the town. Daichi wants to ask what happened but doesn’t need to.

Suga gently pushes himself away and wipes the dried snot around his nose, sniffling and quieting a whimper. He then cups his hands, staring guiltily at his index finger, blood pooling from a cut.

“I got pricked,” he whispers, “I got pricked by a rose thorn.”

“Hmm?”

“The last time I pricked my finger… was the day my mother collapsed for the first time.”

 

—

 

Daichi isn’t superstitious. Yes, of course, he wears a certain pair of volleyball shoes for every game (and he never washes them) but beyond that, he is a realist. There is no such thing as fate, or destiny; coincidence just tends to be a frequent occurrence in his life.

The only exception, however, is Daichi’s uncanny belief in one bad thing following after another. Karma is a bitch, after all. Thus, for him, a cascade of terrible accidents, a reign of perilous overthrows, a succession of moments of impact, is in the least bit surprising. 

But after finding Suga crumpled, disfigured, and weeping on the floor, Daichi honestly believed the situation couldn’t get any worse. After curling up with him, placing a steady hand on Suga’s shoulder, the weight of the florist’s world shifted and steadfast transferred to Daichi, and  _ fuck, the burden was heavy _ . He didn’t complain. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t say  _ anything _ . The man couldn’t be moved for he was Sugawara Kōshi’s rock, his mountain. 

Upon leaving the shop later in the evening, Daichi’s solid foundation, his resolve crumbled. For he hadn’t seen anything quite so terrifying. It had been so  _ abnormal _ to see Suga defeated, so  _ unreal _ . He hadn’t believed it, had slapped himself to wake up, had rubbed his eyes raw to ensure what he was seeing had been real. Yet, in the cluttered room, stashed with small ensembles of ripped flowers and intoxicated with the perfume of salty tears, Suga’s pain had been real, had been demoralizing, had been  _ devastating _ . 

The night was thick with smog, a haze drifting through the small town. The silence had been eerie, and by the time Daichi ambled home, his legs were aching, his body dragging like lead. He craved his bed and the warmth it offered, quick to succumb to sleep only to find the mattress cold, empty of another being.

Growling, he sat upright in bed and scrolled through his phone, finger pad hovering over the dial button.

_ Probably late, again _ .

After a moment’s hesitation, he pressed  _ call _ and waited for his girlfriend to pick up. It rang four times before someone answered, an unknown, staticky voice whispering through the receiver.

“You need to come to the hospital as soon as possible. She’s stable but in very critical condition.”

Daichi felt as if he’d been punched in the gut, something hard and powerful ramming into his stomach. And in that second alone, it was as if the blow could physically hurt him, tears unconsciously streaming down his face like an avalanche. The sock in the jaw had enough force to split him open, to break the peak in half. But fuck, the words  _ critical condition _ had echoed in his ears, and suddenly, the mountain had become an abyss: a never-ending pit of darkness leading to a void.

It had been one bad thing right after the other.

By the time he arrived at the hospital, he managed to sneak into her room, only to witness her body’s cruel intention to twist her into something disconcerting, her arms spazzing, legs shriveling, heart pounding. The seizure ended quickly but for Daichi, it had lasted a moment too long. Because how could one, measly second account for this aftermath? How could one jarring second wherein his girlfriend was driving home, wherein an oncoming truck slammed into her, wherein her car broke through the guardrail and flew into the river, have such unimaginable complications? It had been one second, one single, fucking second. How could she be in the hospital? How could she be in a coma?  _ How could this happen? _

“We don’t know the extent of her brain injuries… but she hit her head really hard and sustained a major concussion. We suspect that she could suffer memory loss, though we won’t know for sure until she wakes up.”

_ If she even wakes up... _

Daichi had gulped, had pressed his fingers to his forehead and massaged a growing headache. Sympathy pain. It wasn’t real, not for Daichi. But for her, for his girlfriend, it was. The pain was real and she might never wake up. 

“And if she loses her memory, will she ever be able to regain them?”

“It isn’t likely.”

One single second had done this. 

“I need some air,” Daichi gritted through his clenched jaw, forcing his way through the crowd of doctors delivering the news.

A hand found his shoulder.

“There’s still hope, son. You just have to trust that we’ll do everything in our power to bring her back to you.”

But Daichi was a realist. And after finding her broken, mangled skin covered in blue and purple blemishes, her body suffering multiple contusions, her mind more dead than alive, her lungs forced to inhale and exhale, a part of him knew that from there on out, things would only get much worse. 

 

—

 

Shortly after that fateful Monday—the afternoon following Mother’s Day—Daichi doesn’t come to  _ Sugawara Floristry _ . He doesn’t stop by on Tuesday either to make up for lost time. He doesn’t check on Suga by Wednesday. He doesn’t swing by to say hello on Thursday. He doesn’t make his grand entrance by Friday. And the weekend: quiet.  _ Too quiet _ .

This routine repeats itself for two months.

And all the while, Suga busies himself with maintaining the store, fixing the damage he had caused, picking up the broken shards of glass still tucked away in forgotten crooks and crannies. He can’t help but feel lonely, withdrawn from his customers. For at the familiar, jarring sound of the front door opening, the bell jingling announcing someone’s arrival, Sugawara looks up expectantly, hoping to find Daichi in the doorway.

Only, he’s never there.

 

—

 

It is half-past seven when the jingle of the doorbell resonates within the confines of the flower shop.

“Welcome,” Suga says without glancing away from his latest bouquet—an arrangement of lilies and ferns.

He hears the heaviness of the newcomer’s footsteps, the gruff  _ hello _ that is muttered but does not turn his attention away from the purple flowers tucked between his fingers. Suga needs something to keep him distracted, something to spur his interest, and right now, the ensemble of violet petals and rustic leaves is all that is keeping him awake.

His mother would be disappointed but the last thing the florist wants is to deal with another customer, especially at this time of night. It’s much too late; a brisk chill is creeping through the cracks in the windows and Suga wants nothing more than to curl up with a cup of tea by the fireplace upstairs in his loft,  _ Sugawara Floristry _ closed until tomorrow morning. He’s exhausted, losing sleep over things he shouldn’t be thinking about: the way Daichi’s eyes held his; the simple holding of his bloody hand; the firm and reassuring grip on his shoulder; the soothing sound leaving Daichi’s parted lips.

“Kōshi, I’m here.”

_ There’s his voice again _ —the voice that had kept Suga up all hours of the night, tossing and turning, sweating and fidgeting.

“Kōshi!”

Suga is brought back to the room, back to the cashier as he is shaken by the shoulders, his eyes refocusing on the man standing before him: Daichi. Sawamura Daichi. 

Suga blinks once, then twice, a surprised sound leaving his lips.

Daichi has definitely seen better days. Even from a mile away, Suga would easily be able to see the dark rims around his eyes, the sickly paleness of his skin, the lethargic expression weighing down Daichi’s usually-cheerful smile. He looks  _ tired _ , something abnormal and unnerving and altogether just  _ wrong _ . This is Daichi after all: the man who cannot be moved, a mountain in every way, shape, or form. 

“Daichi?”

It then occurs to Suga that this is the first time he’s laid eyes on his (favorite) customer in months. Much to his own chagrin, anger flickers, rage bubbling somewhere deep down.  _ Where the hell has Daichi been? _ But as quickly as the flame is kindled, it burns out, disappointment burning in its place, followed quickly thereafter with nostalgia.

_ I’ve missed him. I’ve fucking missed him. _

And for some unknown reason (even Suga can’t put his finger on it), the florist doesn’t ask why he’s been gone, or where he’s been, or when he was planning on showing his face again. It’s not his place to ask questions, especially in a circumstance such as this one, and as a reminder, Daichi will always remain first and foremost, a customer. 

So instead, he clears his throat and asks: “How can I help you?”

Suga doesn’t fail to notice the slight bob in Daichi’s Adam’s apple. 

“Kōshi, I…” He bites back his words then sighs, as if knowing nothing he can say will make a difference. “Just a bouquet of forget-me-nots for today.”

 

—

 

The next morning, at precisely six in the morning, an alarm echoes in the loft above  _ Sugawara Floristry _ , an exhausted, sleep-deprived Suga turning over to slam off the incessant ringing. He groans, rubs his eyes, and then disentangles himself from the warm confines of his bedspread. He quickly dresses, brushes his teeth, smooths the wrinkles in the tissue paper embalming an arrangement of freshly-made flowers—honeysuckle, time to visit his mother again.

This time, however, he’s visiting on her birthday. She would be forty-three if still alive; thus, a bouquet of forty-three honeysuckle twining bines lay cradled in his hold. 

Locking up the hickory door behind him, Suga strolls down the street, a faint chill ghosting over his chapped lips, ruffling his silvery hair. Despite summer having arrived, it is still far too cold for Suga’s liking; he can sometimes catch a wisp of his airy breath on mornings such as this. As he clambers up the sage-old cobblestone path, his footsteps sounding in the empty space, something catches his gaze in the distance.

And then, he sees it: a large bouquet overflowing with blue forget-me-nots laid to rest beside a headstone that is uncomfortably void of stains or weathered edges or chips in the granite. It looks  _ new _ , and the bouquet too, looks  _ new _ .

Fresh. Pristine.  _ Recent _ .

Suga withholds a whimper and drops to the ground, unable to fathom, unable to  _ conceive _ a single thought. The only thing swirling around in his mind is Daichi—how he appeared to have been through hell and back, how his eyes had darkened significantly from mocha to desperate black, how he had been a little worse for wear, rough around the edges, more dead than alive.

Suga wants to cry, wants to scream; it’s because Daichi had held somebody’s hand, feeling their pulse slow, squeezing their palms in an attempt for them to squeeze back, to fight back. To keep fighting.

Only, their bodies had given out. Had given up. Had sworn utter defeat.

Had lost a fight that could not be won. 

And judging by the flowers, it hadn’t been for naught. The person Daichi lost had simply forgotten to keep breathing.

 

—

 

He shouldn’t be doing this.

He absolutely, without a doubt, definitely should  _ not _ be doing this.

Yet, as Suga mentally scolds and urges himself to shove his phone away, he presses the warm speaker close to his ear and counts the number of rings before someone picks up. He counts seven, endures the static and shuffle of someone moving, and waits for the receiver to say hello.

He prays this is the right number; he’d retrieved it from his book of customer orders. 

At some point, Suga realizes they’re not going to make the first move and sighs. If at all possible, he presses the phone even harder against his ear, as if hoping to catch every word from the other end, then breathes.

“Daichi? It’s me, Kōshi.”

 

—

 

“Kōshi?” Daichi croaks, his voice hoarse (he’s been guzzling straight-up vodka from the bottle; the alcohol does wonders to his throat).

“You sound a bit… off.”

“Mm, I might have been drinking,” Daichi mutters, finger tracing the rim of the bottle. 

He hears a sharp intake of air on the other end, followed by a shaky exhale.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

Daichi inwardly smacks himself; the last thing he wants is to drag Suga into his fucking mess.

“I want to help you.”

But for some reason, the alcohol is gripping him, forcing his mouth to open. The words don’t come for a while but eventually, against his better judgment, one by one, they slip through parted lips. A crack in the sidewalk. A pothole in the road. A gaping hole that becomes larger and larger, consuming Daichi and his resolve until it breaks him. Breaks his heart all over again.

He presses the cold bottle to his forehead, the condensation dripping onto his skin.  _ Cool down. Cool down. _

“Daichi, I’m coming over.”

Unlocking his jaw, Daichi manages to force out the words, “no, don’t… I’ll be fine.”

But sheathed in his erratic breaths, he is somehow relieved when Suga’s line goes dead, as if the florist isn’t taking no for an answer.

 

—

 

It’s well past midnight when Suga finally arrives at Daichi’s apartment (courtesy of his customer order book). The street is silent save for the few stray cats in the back alleys, the occasional car in passing. Suga glances around the eerie neighborhood and finds only Daichi’s windows lit. He cautiously walks up the stairs leading to the front porch—all the while screaming  _ turn back, you aren’t friends, he is just a customer _ —and wipes his shoes on the welcome mat then knocks on the door. Yes, Suga knows he’s violating his customer’s privacy. Yes, he knows what he’s doing goes against everything his mother taught him, including the rules that he should refrain from digging into other people’s business. 

But deep down, Suga chooses to ignore all of that because what happened to Daichi, what happened to his girlfriend, isn’t supposed to happen at all. How could someone so young get in a car crash, fall into a coma, wake up long enough to realize she doesn’t remember anything, and then go wide-eyed as blood seeps into her brain, suffocating her, killing her? Painful to bear. Even more excruciating to watch. Suga thinks of Daichi and how he’d been in the room when her body started convulsing, when she started vomiting crimson bile, when she looked at him and whispered  _ do I know you? Where am I? What’s my name? _

No, Suga can afford to break the rules this one time. And anytime after if he has to. Because right now, Daichi needs more than a bouquet of flowers. 

So he knocks again, this time a little louder, and  _ prays _ Daichi will answer. He does after a minute’s time, nearly stumbling through the open door. Suga and his quick reflexes catch the intoxicated man, guiding the both of them back inside while also having the decency to lock the door behind him. Nobody will bother them now. Nobody will come asking questions. It’s just the two of them. Supporting each other.

And as Daichi sinks to the floor against the wall, Suga then sees the scattered beers and bottles, and coughs at the musty smell invigorating the house. He comes to the conclusion, then and there, that Daichi hasn’t seen the sun in a while.

After a moment’s hesitation, Suga decides to sit beside him. He too, leans against the wall and turns his head to look at Daichi, noting the stubble and dribble of alcohol near his mouth. 

“Why are you here?” Daichi asks, his voice thick. 

“I’m here for  _ you _ .”

“I didn’t ask you to be.”

“You didn’t have to. I would have come whether you wanted me to or not.”

Daichi snorts and takes a swig of a newly-opened beer. He holds it by its neck, fingers rubbing over the label, unconsciously peeling at the paper. Once he swallows, Suga gingerly takes the bottle and downs it, then places it beside him, out of Daichi’s awaiting hands.

“I take it you’re a heavyweight then,” Daichi drawls, “want me to get you another?”

“No,” Suga says, attempting to keep a level head, “I’m fine thanks.”

Silence falls upon the conversation—it isn’t comfortable, nor is it tense. It’s just so uncharacteristically  _ quiet _ for the two men, so  _ uneasy _ . Suga can practically feel waves of depression rippling from Daichi, feel his melancholy drowning him. 

“Daichi?”

“Kōshi?”

A second of waiting. A second of thinking it over. Suga releases a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

“It’s normal to be upset. It’s okay to cry.”

Daichi chokes and tentatively glances at the florist, his eyes becoming wet with tears.

“You don’t have to be so strong all the time.”

Suga places a firm hand on Daichi’s shoulder, offers a reassuring smile, and then clasps Daichi’s shaking hands in his.

“You don’t have to be strong for her anymore.”

And all at once, the man who cannot be moved shudders and collapses in on himself, giving into the pain, the tragedy, and weeps in Suga’s careful, capable arms. Suga doesn’t say anything. He just simply embraces the trembling man, holding him where he needs to be held, providing him with the strength to let go of what he loved, what had hurt him.

For Sugawara Kōshi is a florist: someone who knows the art of arranging flowers. What’s more, his mother had given him the skill to cut stems, to cut ties to things that once gave us life. For a flower only grows in the light, reaches to grasp a beam of sun, and sometimes, you don’t know where the light will come from. You don’t know when the weather will take a turn for the worse, or when a thorn decides to prick your finger. Suga thinks of the greenhouse and how he had taken Daichi to his place of tranquility, his place of peace, and can only remember his face completely awestruck by the fertility of the blossoming flowers. It had been a brighter day—

—for the both of them.

But the sweet smell of honeysuckle had hung in the air: a promise that there were brighter days to come. 

* * *

*The hiragana for  _ Haha _ , which means “mother” in Japanese. I didn’t want to write the romaji because it would read as “Happy Mother’s Day, Haha,” and I thought that sounded a little strange. Didn’t want you guys to think Suga was laughing; that’d be pretty bad and sadistic and not very Suga-ish.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this one-shot awhile back but figured I might as well post on this website. Even after months since publishing it on FanFiction and moving onto new fandoms, I always come back to this story and fall in love with these characters all over again. Suga and Daiichi have a truly amazing relationship—platonic or romantic, whichever way you interpreted it from the story. I hope you enjoyed it; definitely a favorite of mine.


End file.
